


Lady Mary's Christmas Present

by Jolie_Black



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Barris - Freeform, Cats, Cuteness overload, Developing Relationship, Did I Mention Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Human children anyway, Hurt/Comfort, Kittens, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, Longing, M/M, Oh Thomas, Secret Relationship, Sickfic, Thomas Barrow is Good With Children, cat dad, downton abbey movie - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28882185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolie_Black/pseuds/Jolie_Black
Summary: Thomas would be the first to agree that he has deserved a lot of the things that have happened to him over the course of his life, but he's not sure he has deserved this.-----------------------------It's late 1927, and some unexpected new residents move into the basement of Downton Abbey. The Downton butler - who has lately had trouble focussing on his work for quite different reasons - needs a bit of help to figure out how to handle the situation.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 128
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let me brighten your lockdown with some unapologetic kitten fluff (yes, literally). Five chapters in total, updates every couple of days.
> 
> All feedback is endlessly appreciated!

"I think I'll run up to London on Thursday," Lady Mary informs her mother over tea on the first Monday in November. "Anna has an appointment with Dr Ryder on Friday morning." 

Thomas serves them mechanically, barely listening, his mind far away. That happens rather a lot lately, but they've yet to catch him at it.

"Oh?" Lady Grantham replies somewhere on the very periphery of his awareness. "Nothing to be concerned about, I hope?" 

"No, no, just the routine second trimester check-up." 

"Ah, good." 

"And I'll try and get some early Christmas shopping done, so I was thinking of taking Barrow, too," Lady Mary continues, causing Thomas to jerk back to the present and look up in utter surprise. 

"You're not thinking of opening up the house just for a shopping trip?" Lady Grantham asks with a frown, as there's no conceivable other reason why her daughter should deprive the rest of the household of their butler's services for two whole days. 

"No, I'll stay at Rosamund's," Lady Mary agrees. "But I'll need someone to carry my bags. Someone not in a high-risk pregnancy, preferably." 

There are not many people in Thomas' life who have the ability to leave him speechless, and there's exactly one whom Thomas won't resent for it. But that person is certainly not here in this room right now. He's… in London. Speaking of which - 

Lady Grantham smiles indulgently at her daughter. "Oh, take one of the footmen, please. Andrew might want to catch up with old friends. Or ask Albert, he'd be thrilled." 

Which is an erroneous assumption in Andy's case, who couldn't be happier where he is. And in Albert's, this would be unwise to say the least. The boy may have well and truly earned his recent promotion, and not just because they'll need a replacement for Andy sooner or later. But he's still underage, and the idea of letting him run loose in London on his own even for a single night is rather worrying.

"No, it'll have to be Barrow, I'm afraid," Lady Mary insists, and turns to actually look at the intended beneficiary of her deliberations for the first time. "Wouldn't you enjoy a trip to London, Barrow?" 

Oh, would he enjoy it? The thing is, he's been waiting desperately for an opportunity like this, hoping for it with every fibre of his being, _thirsting_ for it like the proverbial wanderer in the desert, ever since Richard Ellis said those four words to him, made that promise to him, _till we meet again_. Yes, _of course_ Thomas would carry Lady Mary's blooming shopping bags to the ends of the earth and back again if it won him a single hour in Richard's company, the first since they met back in July. He could have done without the humiliation, but this is Mary Crawley, what did he expect.

She's smiling and waiting for his answer, so he tries to muster some semblance of dignity and hopes that he sounds not too pitifully needy when he says, "Naturally I'd enjoy it, my Lady. Very much so." 

"Good, that's settled then," Lady Mary concludes the subject. "Take the evening off, if you like, I'm sure there are things you'd like to do while you're there. And if there's anything Andrew and Albert don't know how to handle here while you're away, they can always ask - " 

" - Mrs Hughes," Lady Grantham cuts in hastily. "They can ask Mrs Hughes."

Thomas feels a surge of gratitude towards Lady Grantham for deflecting that particular blow at least. Here he was, thinking that Lady Mary was somehow offering him that London trip to make amends, to _apologise_ , God forbid. The woman has an uncanny talent for souring everything at least a little, even her own good deeds. 

Oh well. Beggars can't be choosers.

*** 

Thomas runs downstairs, flat out _runs_ , and scribbles a hasty note to put in the last post, _I'll be in town Thursday p.m. and Friday a.m., do you think there's a chance...?_

It turns out that there is, and Thomas is - not over the moon, he'll never be _over_ this beautiful little silver thing that he carries around with him to remind himself constantly of the two and a half best seconds of his life. But the prospect of a repetition makes him feel both exhilarated and queasy with anticipation. _Again._

They've had two very near misses since July. 

The first occurred when the Grantham household prepared to relocate to London for a few days in late August to catch the tail end of the Season. That idea was ruined by some eggs from Mrs Patmore's larder that had somehow gone off, tainting a chocolate mousse and leaving an unconscionable number of people in the house prostrate with extremely unpleasant symptoms of food poisoning on the intended day of departure. The sorry list included all the upstairs adults except for Lord Grantham, who had – ironically - skipped dessert that day on account of his sensitive stomach. It also struck down Daisy, who had made the blasted thing and was thus entitled to have tasted it, as well as Thomas, who had had no justifiable reason whatsoever to come anywhere even near the dish. To add insult to injury, this was of course duly noted and commented on by everyone who was not engaged in heaving into a toilet bowl at the time. Lord Grantham ended up going to London alone with just Bates for the business side of things, leaving Thomas to vomit his heart out and dream on.

The second miss came in October, when Thomas and Richard had worked out a perfect plan that would have given them exactly an hour and forty-three minutes together at the railway station in York, Richard's return journey from His Majesty's annual sojourn at Balmoral coinciding with a quiet day at Downton, ideal for Thomas to take time off on. But this was wrecked by some visiting foreign dignitary who had to be received in London in state without delay in order to avert some kind of international crisis, cutting HM's holiday short and jumbling up the Royal Household's travelling schedule with it. In the end, it took Richard through York on the same evening when Thomas had eighteen dinner guests on his hands by way of celebrating the Mertons' second anniversary. Thomas doesn't have anything against the Mertons personally, honestly not, but that night he hated them fiercely.

Third time lucky, Thomas thinks when he finally sits at the long table in the Painswick servants' hall in Eaton Square on Thursday night, waiting for eight o'clock. He finds that he has every right to feel starved. There have been letters, of course, dozens of them, back and forth every couple of days, and they're good, but still not quite the same. And telephone calls, they've had to agree, are out of the question - too costly as well as too risky, all too easy for some bored operator or nosy palace official to listen in on.

His hand in his pocket closes around Richard's letter detailing the name and location of the pub where they'll be meeting. Richard has put all kinds of cautious qualifications in his reply this time, like _hopefully_ and _if all goes well_ and _assuming they finish in time_ , but Thomas chooses to ignore all of them.

The Painswicks' servants' supper, which they take early here, is already over, and Thomas is alone at the table. Anna has gone up to rest until Lady Mary needs her again at bedtime, which is still a long way off, and Lady Rosamund's own people are in a frantic hurry to get everything ready for a grand upstairs dinner in honour of the visiting niece. 

One of their two footmen, Thomas has learned from Mr Mead the butler, is in bed with the flu, and the other is kicking his heels at His Majesty's expense, having taken the drunk and disorderly a little too far last pay day night, and hasn't been replaced yet. In combination, this is enough to get any butler not used to waiting at table alone into a tizzy. But Thomas is officially off duty, emphatically out of uniform, and studiously ignores Mr Mead's harassed, pleading looks every time the man rushes past the open doorway of the hall. He's got other places to be tonight, and other things to do. The Painswick dinner party won't starve to death just because there isn't a whole host of helpful hands putting their food in front of them. 

The third time Thomas catches Mr Mead's flapping coat tails out of the corner of his eye, the butler is running into his pantry where the telephone is ringing. A minute or so later, Mead is back holding a piece of paper. 

"Message for you, Mr Barrow," he says, and reads from the note in a rush. "From Richard's in Savile Row. Lady Mary's Christmas present won't get done tonight, nor tomorrow, their schedule is too full." He pushes the note into Thomas' hand. "They say they're very sorry to disappoint, and hope you'll give them another chance another time, or words to that effect," Mead continues, already backing out of the room again as other duties call. "You'll pass it on?" 

Thomas nods stupidly, then sits there brooding over the scrap of paper for another full minute after Mead has left. The words on it somehow make Thomas feel like a limp piece of roadkill.

For a moment, he's tempted to sneak into Mead's pantry and ring back, but what for? To shout at Richard, who had sensed it coming and did his best to prepare them both for another disappointment? Who said that Thomas deserved it in the first place to see the man he wants and needs like he's never wanted and needed another even for five minutes after travelling over two hundred miles for no other purpose and now they're barely a mile apart and he still can't see him goddammit what the bloody hell. 

He _would_ shout, obviously, so instead Thomas crumples the note in his hand and goes to look for Lady Rosamund's housekeeper.

When the clock strikes eight, he follows Mead upstairs to the dining room, wearing the ugly Painswick livery over a borrowed dress shirt, and spends the rest of the evening doing the only thing he's ever been good at, and good for. 

"I'm surprised to see you here, Barrow," Lady Mary remarks, eyebrows raised, when he reaches her on his serving round with the starter. 

"I'm surprised to see me here, too, my Lady," he replies while he holds the platter for her, deferential smile firmly in place, murder in his heart. The sheer insolence of the remark makes Lady Rosamund and her other guests stare, and Thomas takes a savage pleasure in their shocked expressions. 

*** 

With dinner done and dusted, Thomas and Mead finally step into the cold outside the back door for a smoke. 

"That were decent of you, Mr Barrow," Mead says as he strikes a light, sounding very different now that his underlings are out of earshot. "On your night off and all." 

Thomas shrugs. He bends over the little flame that Mead is shielding with his hand and lights up, too. It's after eleven, the jarringly jolly company upstairs disbanded at last, and they've well and truly deserved their break. 

"You came up to see your sweetheart, didn't you?" Mead asks and takes a deep drag. 

Thomas' heart misses a beat. His fingers tighten around his cigarette. "What makes you think that?" 

Mead laughs. "Should've seen yourself at supper, dressed up to the nines and giddy like a schoolboy, glancing at the clock every two minutes. Wouldn't do that for a night at the pub with some old mate, would you?"

Seems the man is much more perceptive than Thomas has given him credit for. He's still trying to determine how worried exactly he should be when Mead continues. "But she stood you up, didn't she? Damn rotten luck, I say." 

"Thanks," Thomas replies with a completely unsuccessful attempt at a smile. 

"Why're you making such a fuss 'bout keeping it secret though? She married, or what?" Mead laughs at his own joke until it turns into a cough, and luckily doesn't seem to mind or even notice that Thomas isn't answering the question. "Got a picture?" he asks then, bumping his shoulder against Thomas' in a way that makes Thomas suspect he's been at the leftover wine.

"Not here," Thomas says truthfully. 

"Must be a bother, though, coming all the way here for bugger all," Mead repeats himself, shaking his head.

He _has_ been at the wine. Could have at least shared the spoils, the greedy bastard. Thomas has rarely been more ready to drink himself into oblivion out of pure frustration, not that he could ever risk it. But he can guess what kind of advice will come next, and preempts any well-meant hints about the willing ladies of the West End by grinding his half-finished cigarette under his shoe. "Bother's one word for it," he says and takes his leave.

He walks the short mile that separates him from Richard until he's at the outer fence of the palace grounds, which is the closest he can hope to get. The lights are still on behind many windows in the vast complex, and Thomas has no idea where exactly he should picture Richard twiddling his thumbs right now, waiting for the much-delayed end of whichever event it was that ruined the evening for them both. 

He takes his hand out of his coat pocket and closes his fingers around the solid wrought-iron railing. The cold of it seeps through his glove and shakes him to the core. Sometimes he wonders why they're always so terrified of going to prison, if all they can do even now is peer through bars, hoping for a glimpse that isn't even there. 

*** 

Anna has her doctor's appointment at ten the next morning - nothing to worry about, everything in order - and by the time their train pulls out of King's Cross just before noon, steady cold rain has turned into driving sleet that pummels the carriage windows. When the train slows down and finally comes to a halt in the middle of nowhere outside Peterborough, they feast on the sandwiches provided by Lady Rosamund's cook, and afterwards Anna shows Thomas what she bought as a Christmas present for Johnny.

Thomas takes the bright little tin toy into his hand. It's a bird with a handle on the underside that pumps air into small bellows under its wings, raising them as if to take flight. The rest of the air comes out through a system of slits, producing a warbling sound. It is a genuinely clever little contraption, and it makes Thomas smile as he inspects the mechanism. It's also a girl's toy rather than a boy's, by any usual standards, but Johnny Bates loves animals in any shape or form and is less prone to wreck things than many other three year olds. Trust his mother to get this exactly right, like she gets almost everything else exactly right.

"I thought you'd like it," Anna smiles while she puts the toy back in its box, and he nods quite sincerely. "I just wish your trip could have been as successful." 

Thomas remembers standing outside the palace last night and shrugs. What's he supposed to say, that one mile apart is an improvement on two hundred? So he says nothing at all, because he doesn't need more of her "I think he liked you" and "This must be difficult for you".

But all she says this time is "You'll get there, just don't give up", as if she knows. And then he recalls that she does know. She's waited long enough for her own happiness.

With a jolt, the train starts moving again. 

It's been dark for a good while when they finally get to York, the train creeping like a snail along the icy tracks. North of the Humber, the sleet is actual snow, and when they reunite with Lady Mary on the jam-packed platform, they learn that there will be no connecting train on their local line for hours, not until the snow plough has cleared the main line in both directions. 

Lady Mary insists that in spite of a foot of snow on the roads, too, she'll call Mr Talbot to come and pick them up in the car. Thomas resists the urge to ask whether she's keen on losing another husband in a car crash after all, leaves it to Anna to talk her out of it and goes to find them seats in the crowded station buffet instead. He spends the next twenty minutes queuing for tea and whatever food there's left. When he takes the meagre spoils to the ladies at their tiny table, shouldering his way through a throng of other stranded travellers, he reflects that he's done a remarkable amount of carrying trays in the last forty-eight hours, considering they were supposed to be time off. 

It's after ten o'clock at night when they finally, finally make it back to Downton, Mr Talbot steering the car from the station up the snowy drive to the house with a sure hand but at less than walking pace. Anna is in tears of exhaustion, and Thomas is so cold that he can't feel his toes any more. They leave the car in the yard and all pile in at the back door in a shockingly democratic manner. 

They've caught the tail end of the servants' dinner. Mrs Patmore bustles off to put together a belated dinner tray for Lady Mary, which Mr Talbot - thank heaven for small mercies - offers to take upstairs himself. Thomas hands Anna over to her relieved husband and all but falls down in his own chair at the head of the table. 

"It's been snowing here all day. I've got out extra blankets for all the attic bedrooms, and we've lit the fires early in each," Mrs Hughes informs Thomas while he does his best to catch up with the others in terms of both news and nutrition. 

"That's kind," Thomas replies, and then realises belatedly that he's probably supposed to lament the extra expenses for heating fuel. But his prickling toes approve, so why should the rest of him disagree? The day may come when Lord Grantham will ask him to cut back even on the small things, but until then the few remaining attic-dwellers among the staff will not freeze in their beds on a snowy November night. 

*** 

When Thomas reaches his bedroom at last, he finds the door standing a little ajar. That's not great for keeping the warmth of a fire inside a room. Maybe Mrs Hughes should have a word with her maids about wasting fuel, after all. 

But a vague feeling that something is wrong lingers. When Thomas pushes to door fully open, there's a sudden rustling sound from the direction of his bed. He switches the light on. There's no one there, but the promised extra blanket is no longer neatly folded on the end of the bed as it should be. Someone's pulled it down untidily, and now it's half hanging down the side and half stuffed in a heap under the bed. The embers of the fire are still glowing in the grate. In spite of the open door, the air in the room is close and stuffy and not exactly pleasant. 

Puzzled, Thomas walks over, crouches down and tugs at the blanket. The result is a wild hiss of protest and sharp pain across the back of his hand. He lets go, startled, and stares in disbelief at the deep, long scratch, tiny beads of blood welling up all along it. 

Keenly aware of just how silly this would look to anyone watching, he goes to fetch a coat hanger from his wardrobe and pokes it tentatively into the centre of the woollen pile, careful to keep his distance this time. There's the angry snarl again, and when Thomas pushes the folds apart, a pair of cold grey eyes with vertical slits for pupils glares at him defiantly.

In the two days that he's been away, a cat has somehow found its way into his empty room and made a makeshift nest under his bed. And in the nest, it - she - has had kittens. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

Thomas can't sleep. It's rank unfair, he should be sleeping like a log after the day he's had. But of course he's still cold now, having surrendered the extra blanket. The scrape on his hand itches uncomfortably. And those beastly things under his bed may be barely a day old, naked and blind, but they're _noisy_ in the dead of night, snuffling and shuffling and making weird slurping sounds when they feed, which they do often. Not to mention the smell, because all that milk has to end up somewhere after all, too. 

Thomas would be the first to agree that he's deserved a lot of the things that have happened to him over the course of his life, but he's not sure he's deserved this. 

He considers gathering up his remaining bedding and relocating to one of the unoccupied rooms for the rest of the night. Carson's has stood empty for years now. But after Thomas steadfastly refused to move in there back when he took over as butler, in spite of the larger space and the better furniture, he'll be damned if a _cat_ of all things makes him cave in now. He'd rather be awake all night than risk nightmares.

He leans over the side of his bed and peers into the darkness underneath. "I hope you realise you'll be out of here first thing tomorrow morning, you and your brood," he tells the cat who may or may not be listening. "I get knocked up at six, and so will you, no excuses." 

This turns out to be an empty threat, because it's Thomas who ends up sleeping right through the hall boy's wake-up call. It's only when Andy bangs on the door twenty minutes later, asking "Are you all right in there, Thomas?" in a genuinely worried tone that he reluctantly opens his eyes. 

"Don't think I've forgotten," he snaps at the bundle under his bed as he pulls on his coat and gives his tie a final tweak before slamming the door shut behind him and running downstairs. 

***

Over the course of a very busy day, Thomas actually does forget about his new subtenants. He can perfectly trust Andy and Albert to keep the family wined and dined, the mail sorted and the door answered for a day or two without his supervision. But the books don't keep themselves, orders want to be placed and decisions need to be taken, and by the time he's caught up, the weak winter sun has already dipped below the horizon and it's time to change into his dinner things.

The men's corridor in the attics is as quiet as it usually is during the day. Or it would be, if it weren't for the strange scraping noises on the inside of Thomas' door. The moment he pushes it open, the mother cat whizzes out, flees down the passage and disappears down the stairs, out of sight. 

Thomas knows that some birds won't return to their nests to feed their chicks once you've touched them. Is it the same with cats and kittens? Has she been waiting all day for the opportunity to abandon her tainted litter and escape?

At any rate, this is his chance. Far from feeling any guilt, Thomas pulls the bundle out from under his bed. The contents move a little, as if in protest. How long does it take for newborn kittens to starve once their mother has bunked off? 

One thing Thomas knows is that he's not going to watch it happen. He looks around for a more solid container to carry them off in. There is none, so he empties one of his smaller dresser drawers, pulls it out and puts it on the floor, then transfers the smelly bundle into it. A woollen fold falls open, and he catches a glimpse of fine, downy fur around a tiny pink nose, and of firmly closed eyes framed by floppy ears. As Thomas watches, a toothless little mouth opens in an almighty yawn. Spindly legs with pink, soft paws stretch and contract again, and then the thing just sleeps on. Hidden from sight, its siblings stir and then are still again, too. They're so skinny and small. What will get to them first, the hunger or the cold? 

Without thinking, Thomas reaches out to touch the kitten. It's the same colour as the mother, with the back of a tabby and a white belly and legs, and it's still fairly warm. Thomas thinks he can feel a tiny heartbeat, but it might just as well be his own pulse in his finger. 

The attack comes out of nowhere, vicious and violent. A surprisingly heavy weight lands on his arm, and razor-sharp teeth sink into the side of his outstretched hand. With a yell, Thomas starts back, and if the mother cat hadn't had the presence of mind to let go again just then, she'd be chewing on a piece of human flesh. Thomas gapes at the bleeding wound, then at the cat, curses in a way he has never done in front of a lady before, wraps his hand in his handkerchief and beats a hasty retreat. The first aid kit is downstairs in the kitchen, and besides, there's little point in trying to change like this and then preside over service at dinner in a blood-spattered shirt. 

"Oh, you're sure cutting it fine tonight, Mr Barrow," Mrs Hughes comments drily when Thomas runs into her at the bottom of the stairs, still in his day clothes and clutching his hand. "I've taken the liberty of asking Andy to ring the gong. I assumed you wouldn't want to be found guilty of a collapsed soufflé." That's when she notices. "Oh dear me, what's happened?" 

"I caught my hand on a nail," Thomas lies quickly. 

When they're in the privacy of her sitting room with the first aid box, Mrs Hughes makes it immediately clear that she has no time to waste on such humbug. "That's an interesting nail did that," she remarks, eyebrows raised, while she swabs the wound with tincture of iodine. "Did it have four tips, or five? And it's a repeat offender, too, I see," she continues with a sceptical glance at the now dried cut that adorns the other side of the same hand. "Whatever it is you're having these run-ins with, Thomas, please consider that it may simply be stronger than you." 

"How do you know I haven't killed it already?" he asks, miffed. 

"Because you don't exactly have the air of a proud victor about you," Mrs Hughes points out mildly. "Unless you can bring me its skin as proof, I'd advise you to simply keep away, that's all." 

There's not a single thing that Thomas has been able to get past this woman in nearly two decades. He wonders why he even keeps trying. 

***

The cats seem to have accepted the wooden drawer as their new home by the time Thomas gets back to his room, with his hand neatly bandaged and - according to Mrs Patmore - exactly four and a half minutes left to announce dinner unless he wants to face her unbridled displeasure. 

The mother, sitting in there with her brood now, raises her head and follows him with her eyes when he walks in, clearly hating him with a passion. Needless to say, the feeling is entirely mutual. 

"You're not stronger than me," Thomas hisses at Her Ladyship from a safe distance and then hurries to change, which is another thing he doesn't usually do in the presence of a lady. Really, his standards are slipping at an alarming rate. 

***

Thomas ponders all the way through dinner how to get rid of the furry problems in his room. 

He can see now that the mother never meant to abandon her litter. He just made the mistake of closing the door and trapping her inside the room all day, so of course she was starved and desperate to get out and hunt, and only came back so quickly because protecting her offspring mattered even more to her than filling her empty stomach. Thomas almost feels a bit sorry for her, but only until he starts imagining what foul things she might have sunk her teeth into just before she got a taste of his hand. That thought makes him feel almost as bad as Daisy's cursed chocolate mousse did, and Andy carrying a platter with juicy pork chops past him at exactly this point doesn't make things better, either.

Thomas spends the rest of dinner unsuccessfully trying to banish his memories of infected wounds and the attendant complications from his mind. After two years in field hospitals, he knows not to laugh the idea off. Luckily, the family are too busy discussing the unhappy state of things in the nursery - the children have been feeling poorly for days, and now Dr Clarkson suspects scarlet fever - to notice their butler's distracted state of mind. They also don't comment on the fact that the butler in question has somehow managed to reduce his sum total of functional hands from the usual one and four fifths to barely one.

***

Thomas sees the family settled with their coffee in the drawing room, tells Mrs Patmore to go ahead with the servants' dinner, then doesn't even wait until he's all the way up the stairs to retrieve the folded napkin containing the leftover pork chop from his coat pocket. The last thing he needs now are grease stains on his clothes, on top of everything else. 

The mother cat lets out a loud meow of disapproval when she sees him standing in the doorway of his bedroom again. It's honestly infuriating how she keeps making him feel like some brazen intruder when he's the one who's lived here for seventeen bloody years. 

But her behaviour changes quickly enough when she sees the gift he's bearing. It's not a gift at all, of course, it's bait, but she doesn't need to know that.

"Look what I've got for you," Thomas entices her in his best would-be friendly voice, holding out the chop on the napkin for her to see and smell. 

It works. His tone may be false, but her hunger is real. She gets up from her place amidst her young, sets one paw outside the wooden box, then another... and soon she's following the chop out of the room and down the corridor. Thomas, walking backwards ahead of her, feels behind him for the door knob, then pushes the door open without taking his eyes off the cat's grey ones. She hesitates before entering this new unknown space, but the lure of the chop proves impossible to resist. Only a few more moments of patient coaxing, and then the chop goes inside the empty wardrobe, and so does the cat, and Thomas slams the wardrobe door shut on her and triumphantly turns the key. Ignoring the muffled sounds of the trapped animal's impotent rage, Thomas opens the window a crack so she can go hunting again later, then goes to fetch the kittens in their - by now frankly stinking - box. 

"Stow it, now, this is the best I can do for you," he tells them when he can feel them stir uneasily again. "Maybe you can explain to your mum that's _my_ bedroom you've been occupying, not the other way round. Be glad that I don't put you outside in the snow. Your new home is probably haunted, by the way. If you see a ghost with very bushy eyebrows and a booming voice, tell him I put you in there. He'll love that."

By the time he arrives in Carson's old room with them, the kittens in the drawer are already quiet, as if they've mistaken the walk down the corridor for the rocking of a cradle and his tirade for a lullaby. Thomas puts the box down in front of the wardrobe, the inside of which is still being scratched to within an inch of its life, and then makes one last attempt to get the fury inside to see reason. 

"Listen, I'm letting you out now," he calls through the wooden barrier. "But if you try and bite me again, I swear I will kick you all the way down the stairs and ask Mrs Patmore to serve you up in a pie for upstairs luncheon tomorrow." 

Maybe Her Ladyship is impressed by his words after all, or maybe she's just surprised at her sudden release. At any rate, when the wardrobe door opens, she falls rather than jumps into the midst of her mewling children in their box, and Thomas is out of the room long before the tangle of tails and legs has sorted itself out. 

***

_You won't believe what's happened_ , Thomas writes in his letter to Richard that night, propped up in bed, a large book serving as an impromptu writing desk. The whole story is ridiculous, but at least it's something to talk about, something other than their most recent near miss and how Thomas has stopped believing in Third Time Lucky. 

He doesn't get far, though. The hand that holds the pen is smarting, his head is heavy and the words start blurring on the page in front of him. So he puts the sheet into the book after a few lines, switches off the light and lets the blessed peace and quiet in the room - _his_ room again, and no one else's - carry him off to sleep. 

***

"We just ran into Mr Morris the head groom out in the yard," says John Bates when he, Anna and Johnny arrive for breakfast in the servants' hall the next morning. "He says he's looking for the tabby with the white belly from the stables. She was about to have kittens again, and he thinks she may have snuck off and hidden them somewhere. He's already looked in all her favourite places, but just in case she got into the house somehow, we're to let him know so he can sort them out."

Little Johnny's big eyes are fixed on his father's face, and he opens his mouth to ask the obvious question.

Anna sits down at the table and pulls her son onto her lap. "Look, Johnny, Daisy's put treacle in your porridge again," she points, distracting him successfully. 

"Right then," Thomas concludes the matter, addressing the table at large. "If anyone catches a tabby with a white belly taking a stroll down the dinner table, or checking a book out of the library without signing the ledger, report her to me. But if it's a black cat, or ginger, or any other colour, don't bother." 

Among general merriment, the topic is dismissed, and Thomas congratulates himself on being just as good at diversionary tactics as Anna, if not better. But then he catches a seemingly accidental sideways look from Mrs Hughes and quickly hides his face in his tea cup.

Honestly, he's done with this whole business. Out of sight, out of mind. His part in this is over.

Maybe if he just repeats that often enough in his head, he'll eventually believe it, too. 

***

It's snowed again overnight, but now the sun is out, making the snow-covered lawns of the park glitter and sparkle.

Lady Mary and Mr Talbot decide to go riding after luncheon, and would Barrow please see this relayed to the stables?

Barrow sees this relayed to Johnny Bates before anyone else. The poor boy has been banned from the nursery since the upstairs children took to their beds with sore throats and a fever. So he has perforce tagged along all morning after whoever downstairs had a minute of attention to spare him. He's bored to tears at this point with his building blocks and his coloured pencils in Mrs Hughes' sitting room, and very eager for a little excursion outside.

"Can I go and look at the horses?" he predictably beams at Thomas when he hears of the Talbots' plans.

Sure he can. Five minutes later, he and Thomas are in the stable yard together, wrapped warmly against the cold, admiring the large, gently snorting, tail-swishing animals, Johnny standing on the lowest rung of the fence and Thomas leaning next to him with an arm around the boy's back, not touching, just in case.

Johnny's eyes follow the head groom when the man comes out of the stables with the tack and starts saddling up. "Mr Barrow?" the boy asks, lowering his voice as if to make sure nobody else can hear.

"Mmh?"

"Why doesn't Mr Morris like kitties? I'd love a kitty." 

Thomas purses his lips. "I don't think he dislikes them as such. It's just that they can get too many. You can't have more cats than there's mice for. Or room for. They'll get into ugly fights else, or starve." 

"Then why does God make them have kitties when there's no room and food for everyone?" 

Thomas glances at the young philosopher at his side. "Is that what your mum's told you? That God makes them have the kittens?" 

Johnny nods earnestly. "Mum says children are a gift from God, and He loves them all. Don't you think so?"

Confound these clever three year olds and their endless questions. "I'd never disagree with your mum," Thomas dodges this one and attempts a smile to mask the manoeuvre. 

"Then it's the same with cat children, right?" Perfectly content with his reasoning, Johnny turns his attention back towards the horses, which the head groom is almost done readying. Then the boy remembers what had him worried in the first place. He tugs at Thomas' sleeve to pull him even closer.

"What if he _finds_ the kitties?" he whispers, his eyes suddenly wide with alarm. 

The obvious choices are either to confront Johnny with the brutal truth, or to tell him some well-intentioned lie. But the answer that comes out of Thomas' mouth is neither,

"He won't find them," he says firmly, and the finality in his tone surprises both of them a good deal.

"Promise?" Johnny asks, eying him hopefully. 

"Cross my heart." 

"Good."

This is when Mr Talbot arrives and offers to take Johnny inside the enclosure so he can pat the horses and maybe even sit in the saddle for a moment, and Thomas' job here is done. Besides, he has just created a new one that he needs to see to. 

***


	3. Chapter 3

By some lucky chance, the phone rings in Thomas' pantry just when he and Albert arrive at the bottom of the stairs with the tea trays from the library, so Albert thinks nothing of one of the trays disappearing in there with the butler for a moment. Nobody in the kitchen mentions the missing milk jug, either, when Thomas returns a few minutes later, having - hopefully - taught Lady Grantham's new dressmaker how to read her own accounts before accusing her customers of defaulting on payments. 

Determined to be ready for dinner extra early today to make up for yesterday's failures, Thomas walks up to the attics straight away, carrying the still half-full jug he's diverted. He doesn't pretend to know anything about cats, really, but every child knows about cats and milk. 

It may be a sign that he's going soft in the head, to suddenly be so concerned about whether or not three or four little balls of fur get dunked in a bucket of cold water until they stop moving. He certainly didn't ask to be their secret champion. But somehow, Johnny Bates has managed to remind him what it will do to unwanted children if you kick them out into the cold to fend for themselves, and who used to know that better than Thomas himself.

Carson's old room _is_ bitterly cold. The dust sheets on the furniture move gently in the draught from the open window, but the mother cat is away risking her proverbial nine lives on the Downton rooftops, so he can't close it yet. The milk that Thomas pours into the saucer may well be icy by the time she finds it. 

"Sorry about that," he mutters as he puts it down just outside the kitten box. "I'll be back with more later. Try and keep each other warm, hmm?" 

He can't keep running up here every couple of hours from morning till night with stolen provisions, really, but he's made the promise now, so there must be a way to make good on it. 

***

Thomas is dressed for dinner so early this time that he ends up with twenty minutes to spare. So in what seems a logical continuation of the afternoon's activities so far, he takes a moment to look in at the nursery. The place has been transformed into a veritable sick bay. The curtains are drawn, the light is low, and three small, far too rosy-cheeked faces look at him out of glassy eyes when he goes from bed to bed to say hello. 

"Story?" George croaks, his poor sore throat preventing him from being his usual voluble self, and a sweaty hand reaches for Thomas' own. Thomas exchanges a look with Nanny to make sure it's fine. She nods and smiles, so he installs himself in a chair between Sybbie and George's beds with one of their favourite books of fairytales. He has hardly made it to the dog with the eyes the size of water wheels, however, when everyone in the room apart from himself is fast asleep, including the exhausted Nanny in the armchair by the fire. Thomas smiles to himself, replaces the book on its shelf and tiptoes out. 

***

The servants' dinner is a stew that seems perfect for Thomas' purposes, so that's one problem solved. Or so he thinks, until Bates addresses him across the table. The valet is eating one-handed, his sleepy son curled up in his other arm, eyelids drooping lower and lower every minute. 

"Thank you for taking Johnny to look at the horses, Mr Barrow," Bates says. "He's told us all about it." 

"My pleasure," Thomas replies and means it. 

"Sorry about the bite, though," Bates continues, nodding at the bandage on Thomas' hand. "I hope it's better now?" 

Thomas, who was reaching for the bowl with the potatoes, freezes in mid-move. Conversations along the table stop, and all eyes are on Bates and him. 

"What bite?" Andy asks, frowning.

Thomas has told everyone who's asked the same story about the nail. How on _earth_ does Bates even - 

"Oh, Mr Barrow has a rather unruly new pet, didn't you know?" Mrs Hughes says, and Thomas is inches away from committing sacrilege in the form of kicking this thoroughly respectable sixty-something woman in the shins under the table. "It's a chameleon, his name is Archibald, and he's sitting on his shoulder right now," Mrs Hughes continues blithely. "You can't see him, of course, but that's rather the point of a chameleon, isn't it." 

Everyone laughs. Thomas catches a reproachful look from Mrs Hughes, and he's keenly aware that he's failing to show sufficient appreciation for her quick thinking. She's clearly so much better at keeping his secrets than he is himself.

"That's right," he hurries to agree, and pretends to transfer something from his shoulder to the table top. "Go on, Archie, you can go and eat all Andy's potatoes now." 

Andy pulls a face and leans as far back from the table as his chair allows. "Is it here yet?" he asks in a mock-terrified voice, and everyone laughs again. 

After dinner, Thomas makes sure to busy himself with the books in his pantry until Mrs Patmore has gone up to bed and it's only Daisy in the kitchen, doing the very tail end of clearing up. 

"Is there any of the stew left?" he asks her as innocently as he can. "I didn't really eat a lot for some reason, and I was wondering if I could take another plate up." 

"Sure, but it's no longer hot," Daisy replies, helpful as ever. "And I can't very well heat the stove back up now." 

"No, it's fine, no matter," Thomas assures her. "It'll do. Just the plate, thanks, no tray." 

"Well, good night then," she smiles, handing it over. "And good night, Archibald." 

***

The mother cat is nursing her young when Thomas furtively pushes the door to Carson's old room open. She raises her head to look, whiskers quivering. The kittens make tiny noises of protest, as if sensing the looming end to their current comfort. 

"Don't look at me like that," Thomas says to the mother, closes the door and switches the lights on. "I'm the one who brought you that milk, didn't they tell you?" He peers at the saucer on the floor. Cold or not, she has emptied it to the last drop - licked it clean, literally. Thomas realises that he's not a being seen as a threat right now, but he is a mighty distraction.

"Keep going," he instructs her and puts the plate on top of the dresser by the door, out of reach. "This is for later." The food may be out of reach of Her Ladyship's sharp teeth, but it's not out of reach of her sensitive nose. She settles down to her immediate task again but keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the plate, opposing instincts visibly warring with each other. Thomas huffs out an impatient breath. "Seriously, I'm not taking complaints. I've spent half my life within arm's reach of nice things I can't have, so don't tell me _you_ can't manage ten minutes now."

It's not kind, but what is he supposed to do? Store the stew outside the door for Andy, Albert and the hall boys to stumble over when they wrap up their card game and come up to bed? Instead, Thomas walks over to close the window. No more need for this little family to freeze if he brings them food regularly now, even though it won't help with the smell. Then he goes to refill the saucer with water from the tap in the bathroom. By the time he returns, the kittens seem to have drunk their fill, so he picks up the stew again, puts the plate on the floor and pushes it towards the box with his foot. She'll have a hard time biting through his _shoe_. 

The mother is up and out of the box in an instant. While she feasts eagerly on his offering, Thomas gets his first proper view of her litter. There are _five_ kittens in different colours there - the one he's already seen who looks just like the mother, one that's a tabby all over, one mostly tabby but with white legs, and one that's a curiously colourless tabby - striped, but only in shades of black and grey, like wisps of smoke. The fifth is hard to see at first because it's almost buried underneath the others, but while Thomas watches, it wriggles out a bit. Its head and back are black, but when it stretches out a spindly leg towards him, the tiny paw at the end is white as snow. 

***

_I'm still not sure how exactly this happened_ , Thomas continues his letter to Richard just before bedtime _, or what I'm even doing this for. The boy's mother would probably say that God isn't picky when choosing the instruments of His love, or some such well-meaning tripe. But I don't think I even believe that God exists, or if yes, that there's any rhyme or reason to how He dispenses His love. Then again, if even we wretched earthlings can't manage to be logical, then why should He bother to be?_

When Thomas puts the letter back in the book, ready to be posted tomorrow, he remembers that he's forgotten to change the dressing on his hand. But he's too tired just then, and decides to leave it till morning. 

***

The fever sneaks up on him in his sleep. He dreams of looking into a vast starry night sky, majestic and beautiful, but then the sky caves in and comes down on top of him, the dark mass with the tiny pinpricks of light in it enveloping him like some disgusting glutinous dough, cutting off his breath. Slow suffocation remains the recurring theme for the rest of the night, too, even if the actual scenario changes every time he wakes briefly, damp sheets twisted around his sweating body, and promptly goes under again. 

When his mind is dragged back to full consciousness at last, there's something tugging at his right hand. The lamp on his bedside table is on. Curled up on his side facing it, Thomas senses the light through his closed eyelids. Another tug. _It's the cat_ , Thomas thinks stupidly, but then he recalls that a cat would have chewed the cord, not turned the switch. Cats don't talk, either, but here's Phyllis Baxter's voice saying, "Careful, now, it sticks a bit," and then Andy Parker's, "Crikey, that went deep."

Thomas cracks an eye open. There they are, Phyllis kneeling beside his bed and Andy leaning over her shoulder, both of them frowning at Thomas' hand. At least Thomas is fairly sure it's them. They didn't use to be quite so purple around the edges. 

"Good thing Mr Bates spilled the beans, eh?" Andy says to Phyllis, shaking his head. 

"I think the doctor needs to take a look at him," Phyllis agrees, putting the iodine-stained bandage she's just peeled off aside. "You could wring out those bedclothes, and he's still burning."

Which is a blatant lie, because actually Thomas' teeth are chattering and he's shivering in his dank bed. The only thing that he can feel burning at the moment is the back of his throat, which someone indeed seems to have lit on fire. 

"Poor dear," Phyllis says when she sees he's awake, and brushes his hair back from his clammy brow with a gentle touch. "I'm afraid you're paying a high price for your kindness right now." 

"What kindness?" Thomas rasps, honestly confused. It feels as if there's broken glass in his throat, cutting it into bloody ribbons. 

"The bite. It must have got infected."

"No, it hasn't."

"I'm afraid that's something you can't just will away, Thomas."

He's sure he's right, though. The wound doesn't feel any different than it did yesterday. It's just the rest of him that's somehow made a wrong turn during the night.

Over in the open doorway, someone clears their throat. Phyllis and Andy look across, and Thomas would do the same if the very movement of his eyeballs in their sockets wasn't so painful. 

"Sorry," says Albert's voice. "Andy - breakfast?" 

Even without seeing the boy's face, Thomas can hear the pleading tone in his voice, and he understands immediately that it's not Andy's breakfast that's in question here, nor anyone else's in this room. Christ, what's the time? 

"It's a quarter past eight," Phyllis informs him and puts a firm hand on his shoulder before he can utter a word of protest, let alone struggle upright, which even he can see would only end in misery. "Andy, do go down with Albert, I'll manage here. Let's worry about _you_ now," she adds, turning back to Thomas when the two young men have left. "Clean pyjamas, and then we'll try and get that fever down."

Thomas is asleep again almost as soon as Phyllis lets him lie back down, both him and his bed warm and dry again, which is a true blessing. He very nearly sleeps through Dr Clarkson showing up mid-morning, too. The doctor checks the bite, shakes his head but then proceeds to give Thomas a jab against tetanus in one arm and one against rabies in the other, just in case. 

Thomas doesn't consider himself squeamish by any means, but one thing he has grown to seriously dislike in recent years are needles, especially needles that go under his own skin. He eyes the doctor's preparations suspiciously. If he didn't feel so weak, and if speaking didn't hurt his throat so much, he might even have argued. It's a good thing that Dr Clarkson knows the story about him and the needles already, and Thomas doesn't have to play brave.

"I've probably just caught the children's scarlet fever," he says to the ceiling, trying to ignore the ugly memories that crowd into his head when he feels the first needle go into his arm. 

"Interesting theory, that," Dr Clarkson remarks drily. "Everyone else in this house is under the impression that you got bitten in the hand by a chameleon. You haven't been in the nursery recently, I hope?" He retracts the needle and starts filling another syringe with the second vaccine. Thomas wonders vaguely who's going to pay for this luxury. 

"Yes, I have," he confirms. "I looked in yesterday afternoon." 

"Well, that would change the diagnosis. Possibly," Clarkson adds cautiously. "I am surprised at the lack of visible inflammation around the wound itself, I admit. That's not exactly consistent with a raging infection from an animal bite. Don't tell me you have a sore throat, too." Thomas nods. "Ah. Well, the children don't actually have scarlet fever," the doctor continues while he administers the second injection anyway. "There's no rash, and they were much better already this morning. I’d say common tonsillitis is the order of the day." He tells Thomas to open his mouth wide and merely harrumphs at what he sees there. "Yes, you, too. Well, do take a moment to stop and think next time, Thomas, before you let sick children sneeze on you or use your shirt cuffs as handkerchiefs." 

Only a man who isn't a father would talk like that, Thomas thinks indignantly while the doctor packs up his things, prescribes bed rest until the fever is down, and takes his leave.

***

By noon, Thomas is ready to capitulate. The purplish tinge to his vision went away after Phyllis wrapped his calves in cold towels and insisted that he force at least a pint of water down his tortured throat over the course of the morning. But he can barely even reach the bathroom as it is, let alone organise food. So unless he wants to be directly responsible for six deaths of starvation, he will have to confess. Roping someone into cooperating with the kitten-rearing by way of bribes or threats would be rather less humiliating, but he can't think of a single person in the house over whom he has that kind of sway any more. He hasn't really regretted that until now, but it's a good while since he last felt so desperate, too.

Unfortunately, the next person who knocks on his door is the last - apart probably from John Bates - whom Thomas would have picked to disclose this particular matter to. But the choice isn't his, and there's no stopping Mrs Hughes walking into his room carrying a tray with hot chicken soup to eat now and a bitter infusion of sage to gargle with later. 

"With Mrs Patmore's compliments," Mrs Hughes says as she places the tray across his lap. "And don't get the two things mixed up." 

"Speaking of Mrs Patmore - " Thomas begins, and he hates how timid he sounds. 

"Would you like me to ask her to set aside some extra stew again today, too?" Mrs Hughes offers with no hint of a smile. "Preferably to be left in the room three doors down from here, four times a day?" 

There's an awkward silence. Then Mrs Hughes lowers herself into the chair at his bedside, so at least she's going to let him explain. 

"Nobody ever goes in that room now," Thomas mutters defensively. This is the kind of conversation that he would much prefer to have standing up and with a stiff collar to help him hold his head high, not slouching in bed badly in need of a wash and a shave, but that's not up to him, either. 

"Quite apart from the state of the room, Thomas, just how many families were you planning to look after all at once?" 

"She - I don't know, she thought she'd come somewhere safe, and I couldn't just - " 

Mrs Hughes is shaking her head at him, and Thomas breaks off. He opens and closes his hand, the one with the bite, making it twinge on purpose. Not even a day. The mother cat trusted him with her children's _lives_ , but he didn't even manage to keep them safe for one full day. 

"What have you done with them?" he asks, his voice so low that it's almost a whisper. He doesn't really want to hear the answer, but somehow he needs to know. 

"We put them where they belong, of course," Mrs Hughes replies, eyebrows raised as if the very question surprises her. 

Thomas thinks of Mr Morris' water bucket, and he realises with horror that his eyes are filling with tears.

"As in, somewhere warm and quiet, and with easy access for the mother to come and go as she needs," Mrs Hughes continues. "The boiler room seemed ideal. Mr Morris already checked in there two days ago, he's not likely to come back any time soon." 

"What?" Thomas asks, stunned, and Mrs Hughes finally smiles at least a little. 

"Honestly, Thomas, we know better than to touch what you love." 

Maybe he can put it down to the fever addling his brain, but it's as if everything that's gone wrong these past days, everything he wanted and couldn't have, everything he's managed to mess up, everything he's failed at, comes crashing down onto his head at this moment, and he just crumbles, tears trickling down his cheeks for real now. Because what kind of triumph is that, when the only thing to be rescued from the rubble is a box full of kittens that nobody wants anyway?

"Now, now." Mrs Hughes reaches across and gently takes his hand into hers. They sit like that for a good while, and neither of them says anything until Mrs Hughes finally reminds him not to let his broth go cold. 

***

"Andy's done the post," Albert says when he brings Thomas his tea on a tray as darkness falls outside. "But he said you should probably look through these yourself, in case there's anything urgent." He jerks his chin at the small stack of letters that has been wedged in between the teapot and the milk jug. Thomas stops himself grabbing them impatiently. He knows he has no right to expect anything, not after his own silence. And indeed, they're just bills, all of them. 

"Oh, and before I forget," Albert continues while Thomas puts the letters down again, trying to hide his disappointment, "I took a message for you on the phone as well. Hang on, it's kind of long." He digs a piece of paper out of the breast pocket of his livery and reads from it. "Richard's in Savile Row have a new delivery date for Lady Mary's Christmas present. December 30th. Weird, I know, for a Christmas present, but that's what they said. And it would have to be collected at their branch in York. But - the gent at the other end insisted that I take this down word for word - they also say that since they haven't heard back from you, if you're tired of waiting and would rather take your custom elsewhere more reliable, they'd of course respect that, too. In that case they'd just appreciate a quick pointer so they know where they stand."

"Take my custom elsewhere more reliable?" Thomas repeats, dumbstruck. 

Albert shrugs. "It's what he said." 

"Has the post gone already?" 

"I'm afraid yes. Why, are you -" 

Thomas is already sitting on the side of his bed. He's probably not being very wise right now in half a dozen separate ways, but this can't wait. Take his custom elsewhere, holy crap. "I need to call them back. Hand me my dressing gown, please, it's on the peg behind the door there."

Albert frowns but doesn't move. "I don't think that's-" 

"Albert, I may not look the part right now, but I'm the butler and you're the second footman, so would you kindly stop mothering me and just follow my orders," Thomas snaps, making the boy stare. He would probably sound even more impressive if he didn't have to clutch the bed frame to keep himself upright. 

"No, no, wait," Albert objects, hands raised in an appeasing gesture. "I did tell them that you were off sick and probably wouldn't get back to them right away, and the bloke said he was very sorry to hear that, he'd be happy to wait in that case, and get well soon." 

"What, really?" 

"Yes, really." The boy waits until Thomas pulls in his horns and slumps back onto his pillows, then breaks into a tentative grin. "And speaking of mothering you, that sounds like I've got nothing on the London tailors, doesn't it?" he ventures, and then positively flees from the room.

 _Honestly,_ Thomas writes to Richard in a lengthy postscript to his finished but as yet unsent letter the next day, _you let them wait on their king and it promptly goes to their heads._

He certainly doesn't want the boy to _know_ , not in any sense that could be held against Albert in terms of complicity, nor against himself in terms of corrupting the young. But in Thomas' experience, the young are usually quite good at corrupting themselves and each other even without any help from their elders, and if one day Albert in his turn should need someone to cover for him, then - within reason, obviously - Thomas will be glad to return the favour. 

_Sometimes_ , Thomas continues his letter to Richard, _I think I'm so used to having secrets I can't possibly share that I make secrets of things that needn't be, and I'm so used to struggling through everything on my own that I forget I may not always have to._

So much for a fair warning. 

_But don't you dare talk about me taking my custom elsewhere or some such nonsense,_ he finishes, _because I am willing to wait for this to happen and to fight for this to happen until the end of my natural life, if need be. Compared to that, from now till December 30th is nothing._

***


	4. Chapter 4

Thomas has barely been back on duty for half a day when Johnny Bates tows him out into the kitchen courtyard for his long-overdue guided tour of Her Ladyship's new home and nursery. 

The boiler room is stiflingly warm compared to the cold outside, and Thomas keeps wondering why he didn't think to set up the cat refuge in here himself. If he had, for one, Mrs Hughes would not be quite so cross with him now. It seems that it was the gnawed bone of the pork chop that they found at the bottom of the wardrobe that really took the biscuit. But she's also told him in no uncertain terms that if he wants his drawer back, he can scrub it clean himself, because she's not doing _that_ for him, too. Apparently there is no limit to how often she will hold his hand when he cries, but there is definitely a limit to how much disrespect to her husband she will let him get away with. Not that she was ever supposed to know.

"... and then I explained to the queen that they'd be a lot happier down here," Johnny prattles on, chirpy as ever. "Cat mums are called queens, you know." 

"I had her down as a countess at least," Thomas agrees. 

"So Dad and I carried the kitties, and she came downstairs with us." 

"Just like that?" 

"You have to hold them with a hand under their belly when they're so small," Johnny explains, proudly sharing his knowledge. "And you've got to let the queen see what you're doing, or else she'll worry." 

"I'm sure she would." The bite has nearly healed now, only itching dully from time to time as it knits itself back together, but Thomas will keep the marks for a long time to come. 

A shadow falls across them, and for a moment, Thomas has a vision of Mr Morris the head groom standing in the doorway, vengeful and menacing, but it's only Johnny's father, carrying a bowl of fresh water. 

"How come this animal let _you_ carry her young all the way down from the attics without protest?" Thomas asks Bates, trying hard not to sound jealous. 

Bates frowns. "You really know nothing about cats, do you?" 

"You make that sound like a serious flaw of character," Thomas shoots back. He swears it's a reflex, he just can't help himself. 

"Blessed is the man whose only flaw of character is knowing nothing about cats, Mr Barrow."

"I'm relieved to hear you say so, Mr Bates." 

There's a silence, filled with so many unspoken things that by rights, the walls of the boiler room should be curving outwards in the effort to contain them all. 

"Don't you want to know their names, Mr Barrow?" Johnny asks after a moment. 

"Names?" Thomas repeats a little stupidly. Of course, kittens need names - another thing he never thought of. "Of course, fire away." 

While his father puts the water bowl down, Johnny tiptoes right up to the cardboard box from Bakewell's in the corner where they now reside, showing no fear and causing none, either. He crouches down, beckoning to Thomas to join him.

"Don't disturb them when they're feeding," Johnny whispers, because that's what's going on in there again right now. Thomas can see the mother cat's - Her _Majesty's_ \- eyes gleaming in the dim light. Her ears twitch when she sees him, and she blinks a few times, unnervingly slowly. 

"This is Mog," Johnny points, still whispering, at the tabby. "He's mine." 

"We'll see about that," Bates cuts in, but without much conviction. It seems that battle is already lost, and Thomas is glad to hear it. It'll be good for the boy to have something small and fragile of his own to look after when his little brother or sister arrives.

"The big one with the white legs is Millie," Johnny continues. "Princess, because she looks just like her mum. Ghost, because he's grey. And Socks, because socks." 

The black one with the white paws - all four of them white, not just one, as Thomas can see now - is the only one of the kittens not firmly attached to their mother at the moment. It's in a corner of the box, dozing or... sulking? It almost looks like that, with the drooping ears, and the little pink nose all scrunched up. 

"That one's shaping up to be a bit of a problem child, actually," Bates explains. "He won't feed properly. But we can't tell if it's because his mum isn't making enough of an effort, or the others don't let him, or he just doesn't see the point. Probably a combination of all three." The valet lowers himself onto his good knee and, with a sure but gentle hand, picks up the black kitten and makes room for it among its hungry siblings. It has a snowy white triangle on its breast, too, to go with the paws. 

"Well, thank you and your Dad for taking such good care of them, Johnny," Thomas says to the boy. "I'm sure you're much better at it than I will ever be. But there's one thing that I know and you don't." 

"What's that?" Johnny asks, intrigued. 

Thomas points at the black kitten, which has now finally latched on, too. "Socks is mine." 

***

Within days, the kittens in the boiler room become a Downton institution. Nobody acknowledges their existence in so many words, as if to make sure that every member of the indoor staff can just smile and shrug, should the outdoor people turn up and ask awkward questions after all. But the cat family clearly has a number of clandestine friends. Whenever Thomas goes to look in on them now, someone has already cleaned out their box and put in fresh newspaper and wood shavings, and there are often leftovers from the kitchen in the queen's bowl. So all that usually remains for him to do is watch them for a bit to make sure they're fine while he leans in the doorway, careful to blow the smoke from his cigarette outside, away from them.

On day eight of the kittens' earthly existence, however, some of their secret custodians blow their own cover in a very dramatic fashion. 

"Mr Barrow, Mr Barrow!" George shouts as all four Downton children - released from their respective quarantines and bursting with energy again - come hurtling into the pantry without even going through the motions of knocking. "They've opened their eyes!" 

Not everyone approves, however. Mrs Patmore keeps muttering about useless eaters, which proves beyond doubt that it's Daisy who's providing the treats for the mother. Phyllis Baxter, whom Thomas remembers jumping on a chair with a shriek at every sight of a mouse back when they were children, clearly prefers nursing difficult butlers to nursing cuddly kittens. And Mrs Hughes... well. There are pieces there that still need picking up, and no mistake.

It's not that she's giving Thomas the cold shoulder, not as such. They keep life at the house going between them in the same smooth, efficient way they have for nearly two years now. But there has been – not a break, not even a crack, but certainly a fine craze in the enamel that now mars the familiar pattern. Docking the price of a new fine woollen blanket from his pay was of course the first thing Thomas did as soon as he was back at his desk, so she could replace the one that he let get so dirty that it could only be burned. But it was clearly not enough. Then again – or so his old friend the spirit of contradiction rears its head to whisper in his ear - nobody ever said it was a good idea for the Lord Protector of the People to marry the monarch in the first place. How was that ever supposed to work, without conflicts of loyalty shaking at least the basement of this house to its very foundations?

The new denizens of the boiler room have started wobbling around on their own four legs, which is quite a sight to behold, when Thomas finally works up the courage to address the issue. He waits for the usual after-luncheon lull in the daily hustle and bustle, then goes to look for Mrs Hughes in her sitting room. She's at her little desk, writing, but looks up intrigued when he closes the door behind him in an unspoken request for privacy.

"What can I do for you, Mr Barrow?" she asks and puts her pen down. 

"I was going to ask you that, Mrs Hughes." 

She frowns, but thankfully doesn't make things harder by pretending that she doesn't know what he means. She merely nods at the empty chair opposite hers, and Thomas sits down on the very edge of it. 

"Can I ask who knows?" he ventures. "About the room, I mean?" 

"Everyone, I dare say. You know it's very nearly impossible to keep anything secret in this house for long." 

"Officially, then?" 

"The Bateses and me. Mr Bates and Johnny rescued the creatures, and Anna and I cleaned up the mess."

Thomas winces inwardly. "And you haven't told…" 

"Thomas, I hope you're aware that the window of that room is in direct view of our cottage. Who do you think was the first to notice the window open and the lights on at night?" 

Thomas looks down at his hands, feeling incredibly stupid, not so much for what he did, but certainly for letting himself get caught. "Is there anything I can do to make this right?" 

"As a matter of fact, there may be. If you're open to suggestions."

"Suggest away, please." He's not quite so desperate that he'd say yes to anything, especially not to anything that involves a direct apology to the former occupant of that room. But some kind of pointer might be helpful. 

Mrs Hughes' idea is, frankly, even more disturbing than throwing himself bodily at Carson's feet would be. "You may want to consider offering up one of the little things in sacrifice," she advises him. "I'm sure it would go a long way to appease the wrath of the Gods." 

Thomas opens his mouth, closes it again, and then feels compelled to ask just how literally she means that. 

She means exactly what she says, as always. "You know, I'm thinking that with me out at work all day, and often for a good portion of the evening, too, a friendly little companion would really brighten up things in our home." 

"Are you _fond_ of cats, Mrs Hughes?" Thomas asks incredulously, because if there were ever any signs of this, especially recently, he must have misread them colossally. 

"Not particularly," she concedes. "But Charles certainly is." 

***

"We can't just give them away!" George protests loudly when Thomas holds a council of war with his little co-conspirators in the boiler room later that same afternoon. The boy is sitting on an upside down wooden crate, and now he drums his heels against it for emphasis.

"You've _got_ to give them away, booby," Sybbie objects just as vehemently, as usual far wiser than her years. "Mr Morris doesn't need six cats in the stables!" 

"Shush, don't shout, you're scaring them!" Johnny cuts in in a sharp whisper. 

True enough, there's too much movement already in the cardboard box for a peaceful nursing session, so everyone falls silent – everyone except Caroline, who tightens her hold on Thomas' hand and whimpers at the idea of losing their little friends. She has only just learned to express her affection for them by tickling them behind the ears rather than pulling their tails, so she understandably doesn't want that hard-won knowledge to go to waste again so soon. 

Thomas hands Caroline over to Sybbie's care for a moment and goes to quell the unrest in the box. He pushes greedy Millie out of the way and places Socks, who was having to put up a fight for his fair share again, between Mog and Ghost, who are the most tolerant of the bunch. "Can you please remember this one's yours, too?" he admonishes Her Majesty, who - as usual - acknowledges this only with a look of mild disdain. At least she condescends to let him touch them now, which is admittedly a huge improvement on having his flesh torn from his limbs. It's thanks to the children, Thomas is sure of that. Ever since she's started perceiving him simply as a strangely overgrown member of that benevolent little tribe, their relationship has improved in leaps and bounds and would now be best described as grudgingly respectful. 

"We won't give them away any time soon," Thomas reassures the human children when he turns back to them. "They still need their milk. But around Christmas, they'll need new homes, that's true. If Mr Carson's getting one, you can always go and visit." 

"Who's he getting, though?" George asks. "Johnny's already got Mog, and you've got Socks."

"For now. I don't think I can have a kitten trailing me at work all day, do you?" 

"But he even looks a bit like you."

"He looks _exactly_ like you," Sybbie points out quite truthfully, and Thomas, who is already in his dinner clothes again, has no choice but to concede this particular point.

"All right, I'll let him stay on if you can teach him to carry a tray. And now you'd better get back to Nanny, or your tea'll be cold."

One last look into the kitten box before Thomas gets back to work, too, settles the question which of them will go to the Carsons' at the earliest opportunity. Millie is still snarling at the others while claiming the best place for herself.

"Consider your fate sealed," Thomas tells the white-legged bully, feeling no regrets whatsoever. They'll deserve each other.

***

_They're four weeks old now,_ he writes to Richard in early December, _and quite frankly, they're exhausting. They have teeth and their mother takes them outside now, so Miss Caroline cries every time they bring back a mouse, even if it's only in a moderate state of disembowelment. They've all got to learn, don't they, Miss C included. But they also keep walking inside by the back door, which they know exactly they're not allowed to do, and get underfoot. And then everyone looks accusingly at me. _

_I can't imagine why that is_ , Richard writes back, and Thomas can see the smile hovering around Richard's lips, ready to break free any moment. Richard has been remarkably tolerant of cats becoming a recurring theme in their recent correspondence, considering that the Ellises have always had dogs. Then again, Richard is far away in London and doesn't have to deal with them invading his work space for real. 

Mrs Patmore, by comparison, is completely ruthless about throwing sopping wet rags at the kittens whenever they turn up in her kitchen. It's fairly efficient as a deterrent, and Thomas would actually give the practice his explicit blessing if he wasn't so worried that one of these days, accidentally-on-purpose, one of her rags will end up in his own face. 

There's also a memorable incident involving Mr Molesley calling for tea in the servants' hall and then jumping a foot in the air when Princess tries to climb onto his lap. 

"Sorry, she's a right cuddler, that one," Andy grins and picks her up competently. 

"He," Molesley corrects his one-time colleague indignantly, brushing himself down as if his suit has been ruined forever. "It's a boy. I can see that from here."

Andy frowns down at the cat in his hands. "Is that true?" he asks her – him - in disbelief, and Princess meows loudly as if in confirmation. 

They have genuine personalities, all five of them. Andy is completely right about Princess, who _is_ a cuddler, but also a wrestler, easily the most active of the bunch. Millie still bosses the others around and then asks her human caretakers for belly rubs as if in reward. Ghost has an elegant kind of reticence about him that gives him an air of mystery. Mog is the most playful and curious of the five. Socks remains the most cautious and least trusting of them all, but at least he's catching up with the others in terms of size and weight now.

"Teo is behaving very strangely these days," Lord Grantham declares a propos of nothing at a dinner around this time. "She keeps sniffing in odd corners and scratching at the green baize door. I don't know why." 

"Maybe she's smelling the cats," Lady Mary suggests with a shrug. 

"What cats?" Lord Grantham asks, and Thomas feels strangely content that some things will just always remain the same. 

***


	5. Chapter 5

The question what will happen with the kittens once they no longer need their mother all the time becomes more pressing the closer they get to Christmas, and it gains yet more urgency when Princess - now Prince - makes his way into the kitchen undetected and Mrs Patmore trips over him, spraining her ankle badly. Reduced to sitting at her little desk with her foot up and ordering everyone else around in an intolerably cantankerous manner, she convinces Daisy in no time at all that Prince is ready to move to Yew Tree Farm now. He already has a job offer there to help Mr Mason's nearly toothless old tom (who is, very imaginatively, actually called Old Tom) to keep the Yew Tree mice in check.

That's three of them provided for. Two to go.

"I find them to be fascinating creatures," Thomas overhears Lord Merton say to Lady Grantham and Lady Mary when the Mertons call for tea on the Friday before Christmas, newly returned from a lengthy sojourn in the kinder climate of the Riviera. "They're capable of deep affection for us humans, but they're so utterly independent of us at the same time. That's really unique in the animal kingdom." 

They're on the red settees in the library, and when Thomas and Andy arrive with the tea, the Mertons have obviously just been told about the boiler room kittens by the ladies of the house. 

"Oh, Barrow?" Lady Mary asks as she receives her cup. "While we're on the subject, would you do me a favour?" 

Thomas straightens up. "My Lady?" 

"Could you make it absolutely clear to the children that none of them are getting a kitten for Christmas?" 

Thomas would be lying if he tried that, because it's of course a done deal by now that Johnny will get to take Mog with him to the Bateses' cottage. There have to be _some_ perks of being a downstairs child, after all. But it hardly seems the right time or place to drive that particular point home. "I'll do my best," he promises in as vague terms as he can, and tacks on a smile for good measure.

Lady Mary all but rolls her eyes. "Do at least try to be convincing, please," she sighs, leaving it open to interpretation whether she means when he's talking to the children or to her, or both. 

When Thomas and Andy are back out in the hall and the library door closes behind them, they turn towards each other in unison. 

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Andy asks. 

"Of course. I'll run and find him. You go and get more milk, more cake, anything to distract them for a moment, and then wait here till I give the word." 

Andy nods, and they're off, Andy to the kitchen and Thomas to the boiler room. 

The three of them between them manage to stage an immaculate little performance. Andy is already in place at the main door into the library when Thomas returns carrying Ghost, who was slinking around the kitchen courtyard and had no objections to being scooped up and taken to new exciting places. 

"You'll be fine, I know it," Thomas mutters to the kitten, a calming hand stroking the furry grey-black back as he moves into position at the entrance to the small library. "They're good people, I can vouch for that." He opens the door a crack. The muffled voices from the tea party in the adjacent room drift across to him, then the sound of the other door opening at their end and Andy carrying in whatever he and Daisy have picked to serve as a diversion. "Go on, then," Thomas whispers, puts Ghost down and gives him a nudge in the right direction. "Go where the food is. And good luck." The kitten wanders off, tail held high and tiny whiskers quivering, and Thomas silently retreats. 

Ghost plays his part to perfection. When the bell rings and Thomas walks back up to see the visitors out, the kitten is still on Lord Merton's lap, being lovingly patted and caressed while Lady Merton looks on with a tolerant smile. 

"Oh no, he's lovely," Lord Merton disagrees at once when Thomas makes a token offer to remove the creature lest it bother His Lordship. Thomas briefly considers putting on a show of contrition that the thing found its way in here at all, but then he catches a look from Lady Mary and decides that unless he wants a clip round the ear, he better hadn't. 

"I'm seriously thinking of keeping him, Isobel," Lord Merton muses to his wife, bound hand and foot already and not even resenting it. "If he's not promised to go elsewhere already, of course. This beautiful, rare colour alone…" 

***

Andy and Daisy take Prince to Mr Mason's in the early evening of December 23rd, after a tearful goodbye from the children, and Thomas decides on the spur of the moment that instead of stringing the farewells out, they might as well get Millie to the Carsons' now, too. Ghost, of course, is already haunting Crawley House.

"No," Mrs Hughes tells Thomas firmly when he appears in the doorway of her sitting room, carrying Millie in a small wooden crate. "That is _your_ job, Thomas, no excuses. And no cheating, neither!" she calls after him, as if she's read his mind and knows how tempted he was to put the delivery off until tomorrow after all, when he could have taken the children along to make things less awkward. 

Thomas walks the short way through the early darkness to the Carsons' cottage, trying to compose a little speech in his head that can be construed as an apology without him having to use the actual words. Because all he is sorry for is the chagrin that he caused Mrs Hughes, and Anna for that matter, who should be taking it easy and not have to clean up cat droppings. But by the time he arrives at the Carsons' door, he still has no idea what to say.

The little house is dark, so maybe he's lucky and Carson's gone out. Thomas knocks. Nobody answers. Millie in her crate moves around impatiently. Thomas knocks again, just to be safe, and is about to turn away when there is a response from within after all, a faint call in a man's voice that might as well be "come in". Thomas tries the handle, and the door opens. 

"Mr Carson?" he calls into the darkness before him. "Are you there?" 

There is a muffled reply from the back of the house, but no discernible words, just a groan. 

Thomas slips inside and hastily feels around for the light switch by the door. The light comes on and guides him through the unfamiliar space, through the quiet sitting room into the small kitchen at the back of the house. And there he finds Downton's previous butler, sprawled in the dark on the tiled kitchen floor, eyes closed, one arm flung out, a crumpled tea towel next to his limp hand.

In a moment, Thomas is on his knees at Carson's side. He puts the box with Millie aside, searches and - to his immense relief - finds a pulse and heartbeat, then takes the man's very cold hand into his own. Carson groans again, but his eyes don't open. 

"Mr Carson? Can you hear me?" 

There's a very weak answering pressure. "El- ... Elsie?" 

"Er, no, not exactly. But I'm going to get her now. And the doctor. You've had a fall, d'you remember?" 

Because what else can it have been, with an upended stool and a small copper casserole lying pell-mell on the floor near the prone man, and the door of the topmost kitchen cupboard still standing open. He must have been clearing up after luncheon. Which means he's been lying here for hours. 

"Hang on, let's just get you warm again first." Thomas puts the injured man's hand down, then hurries to fetch the rug he saw folded over the armrest of a chair in the sitting room, a cushion from the settee and, for good measure, the coat that he finds on a peg by the door. When he returns to the kitchen, Millie has climbed out of her box and is sniffing Carson's left ear. Thomas is about to shoo her away, but then he sees the small trickle of blood there that's caught the kitten's attention. "Good find," he commends her. "The doctor'll want to check that." 

Thomas lifts Carson's head a few inches and pushes the cushion under it, then covers him well. Millie watches attentively. "Now listen," Thomas instructs her. "You're in charge now. Just keep him warm and comfy till I come back. Don't wriggle, and don't make a fuss." He picks her up and puts her in under the covers, right into the crook of Carson's arm. She snuggles up against him, perfectly content. 

"This is Millie, Mr Carson," Thomas reassures their patient when he stirs uneasily. "She'll keep you nice and warm while I go and get help, all right?" 

Carson's eyes half open, and he mutters something that is so completely unlikely that Thomas is sure he's misheard. 

He runs all the way back to the big house for Mrs Hughes and the telephone.

***

_Apparently I'm a hero now_ , Thomas writes to Richard on Christmas Eve, still a little befuddled by the - in his opinion - excessive amount of praise he's received from every direction, Mrs Hughes muttering about a brush with widowhood and Lady Mary literally in tears. _What did they think I'd do, put the kitten in the letterbox and let the old man breathe his last in splendid solitude? But just in case you agree with their assessment of the magnitude of my exploit,_ he adds, _I can proudly inform you that this incident brings the total of lives I've saved in the past two months up to six, which is far above my usual yearly average._

Now he just needs to find a raison d'être for the last of them. 

"Look at us, eh," he says to Socks in the privacy of his pantry, sitting at his desk with his chin in his hand, absently dangling a piece of parcel twine for the kitten to chase and paw at. "All of them gone to their loving new families, and just the two of us left to clean up after the party." 

It's December 27th by then, and Thomas finds himself falling deeper and deeper into a post-Christmas lethargy. There's been too much food, too much jollity, too many _people_ , frankly, over the past few days, and running around keeping them all happy has never felt so draining. It's difficult to admit, even to himself, but he's beginning to understand how the weight of that responsibility can turn you into a constant grump over the years. He's not keen on actually having that conversation, ever, but he suspects that the man who is sitting comfortably in his home at this moment, rug over his legs, cold cloth on the lump on his head and kitten on his lap, would agree. He'd probably also tell Thomas that he needs to stop making extra work for himself. Speaking of which, Socks is hopping around dangerously close to the inkwell right now, so maybe it's time to bring this depressing little conference to an end. 

"See, I _would_ keep you if I could see how," Thomas tells her – her, because yes, trust him of all people not to know the difference between a boy and a girl for weeks on end, either. "But it's just not going to work. Upstairs is dog country, outside is patrolled by Mr Morris, and down here it'll be broken bones next, most likely your own." 

Socks finally manages to catch the string between her little teeth and tugs at it in happy oblivion, which is somehow far worse than any doleful look out of those startlingly blue eyes could be. 

"Come here," Thomas whispers when the exuberant little fur ball starts blurring in front of his eyes, picks her up and holds her close, just for a moment, just... 

When the storm has passed, there's a stack of letters on his desk. Apparently today's second post has tiptoed into the room all by itself. And by some further miracle, the one letter that is addressed to Thomas himself in that achingly familiar handwriting has insisted to lie on top of all the rest, as if to make sure it's the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes again. 

***

This is exactly what Thomas does three days later in York, too, after pondering all sorts of other ideas what he might do and say when the moment comes, and discarding all of them. 

He's checked the address Richard gave in his letter against the street name twice - a quiet residential terrace, but nice, nicer than he thought it would be, Richard's been modest. He's checked the house number _three_ times. And of course it's the right time on the right day. There's nothing left to do but ring the bell, so that's what he does, his heart pounding in his chest. And then, when he hears footsteps approaching the door from within, Thomas simply closes his eyes and waits for the click of the lock. 

"Is it real this time?" he asks when it comes, eyes still closed. 

"Yes, it is," says the voice he hasn't heard in nearly half a year, gentle but also gently amused, and Thomas can hear Richard's smile in his words even before he opens his eyes to see it on his face. It's exactly as he remembers it, and yet a hundred times more beautiful than he remembers it, just for being _right_ _there_.

Mindful that it's broad daylight, three in the afternoon, and anyone may be watching, Richard takes a step back to let Thomas in. "It's all right," he assures him. "We're alone, as planned. Come in."

Thomas takes a deep breath, and it carries him across the threshold of the Ellis family home, hat in hand. The door falls shut behind them both, and they're suddenly incredibly close together in the narrow hallway.

"Let me take your coat," Richard almost whispers, and Thomas would like nothing better than to tell him to go ahead and not to stop at the coat, either. But he can't, not yet. 

"Wait," he mutters and quickly fumbles to undo the buttons. "It's just that - sorry, I didn't know what else to do with her."

"Hmm," Richard hums as Socks wriggles out of her tight temporary abode inside Thomas' coat. "Am I being upstaged by a kitten?"

"Kittens could take over the world, if they weren't so scatterbrained and lazy." A tiny claw has caught in the lining, and it takes Thomas a moment to detach it without damage. "But no. Resounding no. If you've got an old cardboard box or something, I'll just park her in your bathroom until it's time to go back."

Richard looks at the little creature in Thomas' hands with his head to one side. "I think we can do better than that. Come through here, both of you."

It turns out they're not quite alone in the house after all, because there's an elderly, slightly arthritic gentleman taking his ease by the fire in the Ellises' sitting room. He politely heaves himself to his feet when he sees the newcomers and lumbers over to greet them, his black nose sniffing them with interest, and his wagging tail eventually signalling welcome. 

"Good boy," Richard tells him, caressing the red setter's neck and floppy ears fondly. "There's room in your basket for a little visitor, isn't there?" 

Just like that, Thomas thinks, astonished, while he watches the Ellises' dog settle down again with Socks snug between his front paws. _Just like that_.

"I think you may have a hard time persuading her to come back to Downton with you," Richard smiles. "Or him, for that matter. He was getting rather lonely in his old age, our Max."

"I can't just leave her here, though, can I?" Thomas objects. "What will you tell your parents when they get back, that you've taken in a stray?"

"Oh, you know the right answer to that." Richard purses his lips in that way of his that spells pure mischief. "I'll just say that Max has finally found a friend."

They look at each other, _really_ look at each other for the first time since Thomas arrived. And then Richard's face dimples like only Richard's face can, and he chuckles, a deep, utterly comfortable sound that melts all the tension in Thomas' body and dissipates all the strain on his mind so fast that it makes his head swim.

"Sorry." Thomas blinks, but he can't shake it. "Not to be a nuisance, but I feel like I might just - unravel now, or something." 

"Unravel in my arms, then," says Richard and catches him just in time. 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, kudoed or commented, or will yet do so. It means so much to me to know that you got some joy out of this little story in dark times. 
> 
> Credit where credit is due - 
> 
> I salute Paris Zarcilla (@pariszarcilla on Twitter and Instagram), the original Cat Dad who delighted the internet in 2018 with his tweets about the unknown cat that had taken refuge under his bed and had kittens there while he was out, literally transforming his life in the process. I had assumed that his story had spawned a whole new genre of fanfic already and I'm surprised that it hasn't – yet!  
> You can read up on his story in many places, for example [here](https://www.boredpanda.com/guy-found-cat-babies-under-bed-story-paris-zarcilla/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic) or [here](https://www.upworthy.com/this-guy-went-viral-for-becoming-an-unexpected-cat-dad-and-the-internet-melted). 
> 
> I would also like to thank [J_Dtou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Dtou) for his competent advice on cat and kitten behaviour and the dos and don'ts of kitten-rearing. I honestly didn't know a thing about cats when I started writing this story, so his advice was invaluable to me. 
> 
> Thanks are also due to [smithens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens) for advice on the dress code for butlers at different times of the day. 
> 
> [Ariel_Tempest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest) wrote about a butler-lookalike black and white cat before I even knew what Downton Abbey was in [this lovely story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15007601), and has kindly consented to let me commit a grave act of unintentional plagiarism here. 
> 
> Thank you, too, to all my Downton fandom friends who have inspired me and cheered me on during the writing and posting of this story, especially [Once_More_With_Feeling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_More_With_Feeling), who is the queen of the Thomas-Phyllis friendship and who convinced me that Phyllis really doesn't like animals; [Infinity2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinity2020); [Hobbit_Kate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbit_Kate) and [thesmallprint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmallprint); and to the entire Thomas Barrow Defense Squad on Tumblr, who came up with the Ellises' dog for me. I love you all. 
> 
> Those of you who would like to see more of the letters that Thomas and Richard exchange during this time, check out [”The Crossword”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29285358/chapters/71914803#workskin).
> 
> Feel free to say hello on Tumblr @jolie-goes-downton! 
> 
> Looking for transcripts of the Season 4, 5 and 6 episodes of Downton Abbey for your own writing projects? Find them [here!](https://jolie-black.livejournal.com/11071.html)


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